


Just Another Day

by LovelyLessie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Appendicitis, Disabled Character, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLessie/pseuds/LovelyLessie
Summary: Marian Hawke can't be sick the week of her big physiology test. And even if she is, well, that will just have to wait until after she passes. She can make it another two days until she has time to see someone, if she isn't better by then. Which, of course, she will be...





	1. Chapter 1

 On Tuesday morning, Marian wakes up with a stomachache.

She doesn’t think much of it as she shuffles bleary-eyed around the apartment getting ready for class. It’s not much, just a dull ache below her ribs - maybe something she ate last night that didn’t agree with her. Maybe cramps, she thinks grumpily, though it’s got to be at _least_ a week too soon - but either way she’ll live.

Daisy seems to know she’s not feeling well; the dog trails closely behind her, nuzzling at her hands and knees and licking her fingers gently while she tries to get dressed. Marian grins and scratches her behind the ears, planting a kiss on the top of her head.

“I’m okay, baby girl,” she says. “Don’t you worry about me.”

She packs up her laptop bag while the coffee is brewing, checks that everything she needs is in her wallet where it belongs before filling her travel mug and pulling her jacket on. The pain spikes when she throws her bag over her shoulder, and she winces, but it passes just as quickly. Daisy whines, and she pats her on the head to soothe her.

“Garrett, I’m leaving,” she calls, grabbing her keys from the hook by the door. She hears an indistinct response from the direction of his room and grins, shaking her head as she steps out the door and heads towards her first class.

* * *

By the end of her lecture, the pain hasn’t gone away, and it’s begun to unsettle her stomach, too. She leaves the lecture hall with her arms wrapped around her abdomen, hoping she isn’t actually getting sick - she’s too damn _busy_ for that. Then again, she reminds herself, she hasn’t had breakfast yet, and she’s already had sixteen ounces of coffee. Maybe if she eats something, it will help.

She takes a detour by the student union before heading to the library and gets a ginger ale from the vending machine, which she cracks open to let the carbonation out. Tucking it under her arm, she crosses the union to stop at the smoothie bar. “Triple-berry power smoothie, please,” she says, handing over her student card to pay.

While the barista makes her smoothie, she leans against the wall and sips tentatively at her ginger ale, rubbing her tender stomach with her free hand. She presses against where it hurts and grimaces when she finds the spot hard, the muscles around it tense.

“Here’s your smoothie,” the barista says, sliding it across the counter to her.

“Thanks,” she says, and takes it, grabbing a straw as she passes and heads towards the library.

* * *

Anders is already sitting at a table in the back when she gets there, his head bent over his notebook and three textbooks spread out in front of him. “Hi,” he says without looking up when she sits down.

“Hey,” she says, setting down her drinks and dropping her bag on the floor. “Isn’t my brother here yet?”

“Don’t think he’s up,” Anders says. “He…well, _tried_ to text me, about ten minutes ago.”

She snorts and pulls her laptop out of her bag. “I guess we’ll see him when he gets his ass out of bed. What are you working on?”

“Physio reading,” he says, a little sheepishly. “I know we’re reviewing in class, but I want to try to get some notes first.”

“Trade you,” Marian says, though she’s already got her notes on the physiology reading. “I’ve got a poli-sci research paper due tomorrow.”

“Ooh, that’s the one with the awful professor, right?” he asks, looking up briefly. “Who hates crazy people? That’d be a field day.”

“Let the debate captain tear her apart,” she jokes, pulling up the file.

“The debate captain,” Anders says dryly, “is not allowed to write papers anymore.”

She laughs and takes a sip of her smoothie. “Guess that’s fair.”

As much as she intends to, she finds she has a hard time focusing on revising her paper, so she spends the first half an hour just taking alternate sips from her soda and her smoothie while chiming in with comments about Anders’s physio notes. She doesn’t really feel like she’s going to be sick, but she can’t quite keep her mind off her unsettled stomach. It comes as a relief, actually, when Isabela appears and plops herself down in the chair next to her, giving her an excuse to look up from her computer.

“How’s the study session?” she asks languidly, kicking her feet up under the table.

“Care to finish revising my research paper?” Marian asks.

“If you want to do my fucking ten _pages_ of log analysis for Monday,” Isabela sighs. “Sometimes I don’t know why I came back to school.”

“Join the club,” Marian says, and takes a sip of her smoothie. She’s not sure whether drinking it is easing her stomach or not.

“I don’t come to these study sessions to be the only one working,” Anders says, looking dolefully at them. “Isn’t the point sort of that we study _together?”_

“And yet,” Isabela says lightly as she pulls out her binder, “the other Hawke is invited.”

“Bela!” Marian says, though she can’t help grinning at the joke.

“Well, you’re not doing much either,” Isabela points out. “And you can’t exactly afford to waste daylight, can you?”

“Harsh,” Anders murmurs, and Marian rolls her eyes at them both before turning back to her laptop to look back at her sources _again._

* * *

She manages to get some of the work done on her paper, though it feels increasingly like she’s wading through knee-deep mud trying to review her sources and find anything new to add. She doesn’t feel better, either; the pain doesn’t get worse, but she’s getting more and more queasy, and around an hour in she’s starting to taste iron under her tongue.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she says eventually, getting up from the table, and waves at them before turning and heading quickly for the bathrooms. She can feel an uncomfortable tightness in her throat and a heavy feeling in her stomach, and clenches her jaw, hoping she can get there before she’s sick.

She ducks into a stall at the back of the bathroom and closes the door behind her. Shaking a little she lifts the seat and crouches in front of the toilet, resting her elbows on the edges and her forehead in her hands.

Her stomach clenches and she groans, hugging her midsection with one arm and leaning forwards. She burps and retches, dry-heaving a few times before throwing up a foul mouthful of her smoothie. “Fuck,” she mutters, and spits reddish mucous into the bowl. She tries to swallow, gags, and heaves again, a thin trickle of vomit spilling out of her mouth.

A few moments pass, and nothing else comes up. She sits up, taking a few deep breaths. Her stomach still hurts, but the nausea’s mostly receded.

She spits again before she flushes the toilet and gets to her feet. She’d better get back before the others start to worry about her, she thinks, and quickly washes her hands. Her face looks a little pale in the mirror, and she frowns and splashes cold water on her cheeks to bring some color back to them. It ought to be enough, so long as none of them look at her too closely. The last thing she wants is for them to make a fuss about it. She’s _fine._

* * *

The nausea goes away for a while, but it comes back. By the time she and Anders leave the library to go to physiology, she’s starting to feel very sick again. She takes baby sips of her ginger ale, hoping it will at least be enough to get her through class without vomiting again. Of course, their physio lecture is two hours, but she got through her morning class.

“I’m not going to be ready for this test,” Anders groans as they enter the lecture hall. “I feel like I don’t know _anything._ ”

“That’s why we have a review,” Marian points out, and clenches her fist in the pocket of her jacket as she climbs the steps to her usual seat in the fourth row, trying to control her upset stomach. “And we’re studying tomorrow, too, remember?”

“How do _you_ feel about it?” he asks.

“Fine,” she says quickly, before he’s even quite finished speaking, and forces a smile in response to his skeptical look. “I mean - it’s maybe not my strongest section, but we’ll go over everything a couple of times.”

She takes her seat and pulls out her laptop and a pen. Anders sits down next to her and drops his notebook on the desk, folding his arms. Dammit, she thinks - it’s just her luck to be sick the day she spends half the day with him. He’ll kick up a fuss if he realizes she’s not feeling well, even if it’s nothing serious.

* * *

The first time she excuses herself to go to the bathroom, not quite halfway through class, it turns out to be a false alarm; she sits on the floor for a few minutes and rests her face against the metal stall divider while her stomach settles, and finds the cold makes her feel better.

She takes off her jacket and ties it around her waist to stay cool and heads back to class, somewhat relieved and feeling less dreadful in general. Maybe she’s past the worst of whatever it is now and she’ll feel better by tomorrow.

With half an hour left in class, her stomach suddenly cramps, _hard,_ and she quickly presses her hand to her lips as she feels acid burning her throat and the back of her mouth. She swallows it, trying not to let disgust show on her face, and hurries out of the lecture hall as calmly as she can before bolting for the bathroom. Barely in time, she ducks into the first stall and drops to her knees as her stomach convulses and violently expels what’s left of her breakfast.

She groans and slumps forwards, wrapping one arm around her stomach. Maybe she really is sick, she thinks, rubbing her eyes with her other hand. And the week of a big test, too.

Well, there’s not much to do about that except power through it. She sits up, waits a moment to make sure another wave of nausea doesn’t sweep over her, and when it doesn’t, flushes the toilet twice to get rid of all traces of vomit. Before she leaves the bathroom she checks her reflection in the mirror, slaps the blood back into her cheeks and dabs at the corners of her eyes with a paper towel. As long as she looks more artfully disheveled than actually ill, no one’s likely to notice.

* * *

Despite her best efforts, Anders notices.

“Are you doing alright?” he asks in his best bedside manner voice as they’re leaving class.

“Of course!” she says. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “I’ve never known you to leave class during a test review,” he says. “Let alone _twice._ ”

“I’ve had a lot of coffee today,” she lies, and gives him a sheepish grin. “The three hour lecture first thing in the morning is _hell._ ”

“I suppose that’s fair,” he agrees, though he still looks a little concerned. “So we’re still doing lunch?”

Lunch is actually about the last thing she wants to think about when she’s been sick three times already today, but they usually meet Merrill after class before Anders goes to his next one, and quite aside from avoiding Anders’ scrutiny, she _hates_ the thought of disappointing Merrill. “Of course,” she agrees. “Come on, Merrill’s probably already waiting.”


	2. Chapter 2

They meet up with Merrill at the student union, where she’s perched on the stair railing reading a book. “Oh!” she says when she looks up to see them. “Sorry! I didn’t hear you come up.”

She slides off the railing to land lightly on her feet, beaming at Marian, who can’t help smiling back no matter _how_ terrible she feels. “How’s your day?” she asks.

“Oh, it’s lovely,” Merrill chirps, and catches onto her hand. “What do you want for lunch? I was thinking maybe pasta.”

“Pasta sounds great,” Marian agrees. “Anders?”

He shrugs. “If that’s what you both want,” he agrees.

They start walking, Marian trailing a little behind Merrill’s bouncy stride, Anders keeping pace beside them with his hands in his jacket pockets. It’s a warm, bright day, and the sun in her eyes makes Marian’s head hurt. She’s glad it’s not a long walk, at least; moving too much or too quickly makes the pain in her abdomen worse.

“You had that review today, right?” Merrill asks as they find a table to sit down at. “For the test? How did it go?”

“Well, _one_ of us is confident,” Anders says, sighing dramatically as he throws himself into the chair.

Merrill frowns, cocking her head. “When you say one of us,” she begins thoughtfully, “do you mean Hawke, or…?”

“He’s making fun of me,” Marian says, and rips off part of her napkin. “For having the _nerve_ to take a _piss_ during class.”

“Though,” Anders says, “maybe you’ve got a point about his confidence - _ouch!”_ He flinches and looks up sharply as Marian flicks her balled-up napkin strip at his head.

“Absolute and unshakable conviction in everything he says doesn’t mean your dear roommate is always _right,_ ” she points out.

“Maybe not,” Anders sighs, “but it _feels_ nice, sometimes.”

“ _You’re_ the one who’s been studying so hard,” she says. “You know the material, it’s just test anxiety.”

“I’m sure you’ll get everything right,” Merrill adds brightly. “You’re very smart.”

He grins and shakes his head as the waitress arrives with their food. “Fettuccine alfredo,” she says and Marian raises her hand.  “Garden pesto, and pasta primavera.”

“Thanks,” Marian says.

“Just plain alfredo today?” Anders asks lightly as he starts on his pasta. “I thought you liked a kick.”

“I don’t _just_ eat spicy food,” she protests, frowning. “Can’t I just savor something creamy without being judged?”

He shrugs. “Sure,” he agrees, “if that’s what you want.” He looks up at her and raises an eyebrow. “Enjoy yourself.”

She glares at him across the table, and he looks back unfazed. Grumpy, she looks away and stabs at her pasta, trying not to think too hard about how pasta alfredo, even without spice, will sit in her stomach.

Merrill, bless her, seems entirely oblivious to his suspicion, cheerfully eating her pasta. “Well, mine is good,” she says.

“How have _your_ classes been?” Marian asks sweetly, turning to her.

“Oh!” Merrill says, her eyes growing wide. “We’ve been studying the genus divergences of _Oleeae_ and how the major genera developed, I’m really enjoying it!”

“Tell us about it!” Marian suggests, beaming at the sight of Merrill’s face so eager and bright.

* * *

A passionate speech about lilacs and a very exasperated discussion about psychology later, they’ve all finished eating, and Anders stands up, grabbing his bag. “I’ve got to get to class,” he says, and waves at them. “See you tomorrow for study group?”

“Same place as always,” Marian agrees, her voice a little strained. She’s starting to feel sick again, her lunch feeling very heavy in her stomach, but she grins as she waves back. “Have fun in class.”

He laughs at that and turns to head towards his lecture at a brisk walk, disappearing around the corner.

“Are you ready to go, too?” Merrill asks chipperly.

“Sure,” Marian says, and gets to her feet. Standing unsettles her stomach, and she has to close her eyes quickly and wait for her balance to catch up with her. The muscles in her abdomen clench unpleasantly.

“What do you want to do before your class?” Merrill asks, sweetly ignorant of her suffering.

“Um,” she manages, and shrugs, too distracted by her stomach to think of anything. “Anything you like.”

“I think I’d like to get a cup of tea,” Merrill says, and reaches for her hand. “Come join me?”

Marian follows a little helplessly as she leads the way along the road back to the union. God, just walking is making her nauseous, and she’s beginning to feel a little like she has a knife stuck in her midsection. She grits her teeth and tries to mirror Merrill’s cheerful smile despite the effort it’s taking not to gag.

There are too many _people_ in the union, and the noise makes her want to scream. She clenches her free hand into a fist as Merrill heads for the coffee shop on the opposite side of the building. Her stomach gurgles unhappily and she swallows against the tight feeling in her throat.

“Do you want anything?” Merrill asks as they reach the cafe.

“No,” Marian says, her voice a little shaky, “that’s alright, thanks, Merrill.”

“I’ll be right back, then!” Merrill says, and goes to get her drink.

Marian stands where she is for a moment, swaying on the spot. Her stomach turns over and she stifles a sick belch with one hand. She can taste vomit in the back of her mouth and fights against her gag reflex so she doesn’t throw up on the spot. Clutching at her stomach, she turns and heads towards the bathrooms.

She manages to make it in time, at least, to lift the toilet seat and duck her head before she retches, her muscles convulsing around her stomach and forcing her lunch back up her throat. Curdling cream sauce and strands of pasta splash into the bowl, acid burning her mouth and nose. One heave after another wracks her body, so hard she can hardly catch a breath between waves of chyme spewing up from her throat. She must have thrown up half a dozen times before she’s able to even lift her head, sobbing and gasping raggedly for air.

The bathroom door opens, and she freezes up, her whole body taut, trying desperately not to cough or gag and make a sound. The last thing she wants is to draw attention to herself with someone else here.

“Hawke?” says Merrill’s soft voice.

Oh, _fuck,_ she thinks, and tries to stay quiet before her stomach turns over. She groans weakly and retches again, coughing up a mouthful of watery off-white sick.

“Oh, Hawke,” Merrill says, and carefully pushes the stall door open. She kneels down next to Marian, brushing back her hair with light, gentle fingers.

“Sorry,” Marian mutters, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles. “Didn’t mean to leave you hanging.”

“I thought you looked a little unwell,” Merrill says sympathetically, and rubs her shoulders while she leans over to heave a few more times. “Oh, dear - it’s alright, you’re alright, just get it out.”

“You noticed, huh?” she manages when she stops vomiting. Her stomach still feels queasy, but she doesn’t think there’s actually much left to throw up.

“Well, you were awfully quiet at lunch,” Merrill says, tracing circles on her back with her hand. “And you’ve been looking terribly pale.”

“You kept quiet,” Marian says, and gives her a shaky smile.

Merrill shrugs, her eyes wide. “I didn’t expect you’d want to talk about it,” she says.

“You’re better than I deserve.” She leans over the toilet to spit into it, her eyes screwed shut so she doesn’t catch a glimpse of the mess before flushing it.

“Will you be alright?” Merrill asks kindly as she sits back on her heels. “If you need to go home, I could see about getting your assignments for you.”

She laughs and shakes her head, scrubbing at her stinging eyes. “No, thanks. I think I can make it to my other classes.”

“Alright,” Merrill agrees, and gets to her feet, offering Marian a hand up. “But why don’t you sit down until you have to go.”


	3. Chapter 3

She does make it through her last three classes of the day, though even just drinking a Gatorade to stay hydrated she has to step out twice to pay a visit to the bathroom. It’s not as bad, though, and she’s able to keep most of her drink down.

Still, she feels like death warmed over when she drags herself up the stairs to the apartment and lets herself in. “Hi,” she mutters flatly, and collapses on the couch. Daisy immediately comes to join her, resting her chin in Marian’s lap and looking up at her with soft soulful eyes.

“Hey,” Garrett says, emerging from the kitchen with a bowl full of pizza rolls. “How was class?” He stops short at the entrance to the living room, frowning at her. “Wow, you look like _shit.”_

“Thanks, Garrett,” she says irritably, burying her hands in the soft fur around Daisy’s neck and scratching her. Daisy wags her tail happily.

“You look like you got in a fight with a theater major and lost,” he continues, sitting down on the chair. “You okay?”

“I’ve been throwing up _all_ day,” she says, glowering at him. “The next theatre major I get into a fight with is going to be _you.”_

“Actually, my _major_ is film studies,” he says. “And I only have one of them.”

She shakes her head at him slowly, glaring harder. “Garrett, I love you,” she says, “but would you do me a favor and shut the hell up?”

“Sorry,” he says, holding up both hands. “Really - what can I do?”

“Take the fucking knife out of my stomach,” she mutters, hunching her shoulders.

“That bad, huh,” he says, sympathetically. “You think you’re sick, or…?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know, it just _hurts._ ”

He doesn’t respond to that, and she glances up to see him visibly biting his tongue on some sort of snarky comment. She rolls her eyes.

“I might go lie down,” she sighs, though she doesn’t really want to get up. She knows she _should_ try to do some homework, and maybe see if she can keep down some kind of solid food, but she mostly just wants to close her eyes and rest.

“Try to drink some water,” Garrett says. “I can bring it to you, if you want.”

She manages a faint smile at the slightly helpless look on his face. “Thanks,” she says. “I’ll try to have a little.”

“Let me know if there’s anything you need,” he adds as she gets heavily to her feet and starts towards her room, Daisy following at her heels.

* * *

She doesn’t sleep well, or even get much rest. Every half-hour or so she wakes up in pain, her stomach cramping and heaving unproductively. Still, she’s keeping water down, and manages to drink a little more each time she wakes before going back to bed, which is a sign of some improvement, she hopes.

Around two in the morning, she wakes up and, instead of immediately dry-heaving, finds her stomach growling and feeling horribly hollow. Grimacing, she rolls out of bed and shuffles towards the kitchen. Maybe if she just eats a bowl of rice she’ll feel better and be able to stomach it. And it’s certainly a good sign that she’s doing better if she’s gotten her appetite back.

She fills a pot of water from the tap and sets it on the stove to heat, grabbing a ginger ale from the fridge to drink while she waits. Daisy pads into the kitchen, her claws clicking softly on the tiles, and Marian leans down to pet her. Her stomach still hurts, but she’d rather deal with more pain and less nausea if she has the choice.

Daisy whines softly, nosing at her hand, her tail thumping quietly against the cabinet door. “It’s okay, Daisy,” she says, scratching the dog behind the ears. “I’m okay.”

Daisy whines again and bumps against her leg insistently. She frowns and checks the water before sitting down on the floor. It’s probably not a seizure warning, but Daisy obviously feels like something isn’t right, even if Marian doesn’t _feel_ wrong aside from the pain. Sitting down doesn’t satisfy her, either; she curls up on the floor and lays her head in Marian’s lap to look up at her with huge eyes, still whimpering.

She takes a few tiny sips of her ginger ale and then presses the cold bottle to her cheek. It’s not really a surprise that it’s a relief, but she hadn’t realized just how feverish she’d been feeling until now. Maybe that’s why Daisy’s worried; a high enough fever could trigger a seizure, especially if she doesn’t take care of herself.

“I’m gonna be okay, baby,” she murmurs to the dog and kisses her nose before getting to her feet to check the water and see it’s boiling by now. She measures in a cup of rice and sets the pot aside to steam, starting the timer on her phone for when it’s done.

While it cooks, she sips her soda some more and then ducks into the bathroom to get the thermometer. Not that she’s _worried,_ but it’s good to know where her fever is sitting, just in case. She perches on the edge of the couch with it in her mouth, waiting impatiently for it to read.

It beeps at just over a hundred, and she frowns at it, annoyed. She can’t afford to be seriously ill this week, but she knows if it gets much higher she could be in some trouble. She can’t start getting seizures until _after_ her exam.

She puts the thermometer away and digs a bottle of ibuprofen out of the medicine cabinet. She’s not sure she _should_ take a painkiller for her stomach pain, but it’s an antipyretic, too, and having seizures certainly won’t be good for it.

Not that there’s anything seriously wrong with her, of course, but it’s better to be proactive just in case.

The timer on her phone goes off, and she returns to the kitchen to serve up her rice. She eats it slowly with a pinch of salt, taking sips of ginger ale every few bites. It doesn’t seem to upset her stomach; mostly she’s glad to have some kind of solid food in her system.

She finishes her rice and puts her bowl in the sink, leaving her ginger ale on the counter next to it. “Come on, Daisy,” she murmurs, and the dog follows her close on her heels as she goes back to her bed.

* * *

When she wakes up an hour later, she’s shaking violently and already tastes sick on her tongue. She groans and gags, covering her mouth with one hand as she stumbles to her feet. With her other hand trailing on the wall, she bolts for the bathroom to throw up. The pain in her abdomen peaks sharply as she coughs and retches, choking on bits of rice coming back up and splashing into the bowl. She gasps for breath before she heaves again, wrapping both arms around herself trying in vain to ease the pain.

Still nauseous and trembling, she sits up a little when she’s stopped puking and fumbles to turn on the bathroom light. There’s vomit spattered on the toilet seat and the underside of the lid, and she cringes, her throat tightening again. Swallowing against it, she unrolls some toilet paper to wipe it up. As she leans too close, the smell makes her gag again, and she ducks her head as another wave hits her.

The second round, at least, mostly brings up acid and ginger ale, and she’s able to get all of it in the toilet. She flushes, her eyes screwed shut against pain and tears, taking unsteady breaths through her teeth. Her body shudders and she quickly bends over to be sick again, but she only dry heaves a couple of times before her stomach settles.

“Fuck,” she mutters, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. “ _Fuck._ ” She hopes she hasn’t rid herself of all the water she managed to drink over the course of the evening, though she thinks if she was going to throw up all of that she would’ve done it sooner. Probably she’s lost enough fluids already that her body’s absorbing it too quickly for her to vomit it up again.

She leans against the wall, curled up and holding her stomach, and wonders miserably if she threw up the ibuprofen, too, though now that she’s stopped heaving the pain seems a little duller. She feels disgusting - she’s drenched in sweat and her limbs are about as strong as overcooked pasta, her hair soaked, and her abdomen still feels bloated and distended even after expelling her supper. The smell of vomit clings to the inside of her nose and mouth like a parasite.

Maybe she should shower, she thinks, and wonders if hot water might ease the pain any. If nothing else, maybe it’ll make her stop shivering.

Exhausted and weak, she climbs to her feet and strips off her shorts and tank top, leaving them crumpled on the bathroom floor. “Daisy,” she calls softly, and Daisy noses her way into the room with a soft whine to curl up next to the shower. Usually she doesn’t worry enough that she needs the dog in the room when she _showers,_ not unless she’s already been having seizures, but it’s comforting, as rotten as she’s feeling, to have her there with her.

She climbs into the tub and draws the curtain, sitting down with her knees curled up to her chest before she turns the water on and lets it run over her. She can’t tell if it helps any with the pain, but it definitely eases some of the trembling tension from her shoulders and back, and she sighs.

For a long while she just sits under the water, combing her fingers through her hair and massaging her aching abdominal muscles with one hand, careful not to press against the tender swollen spot above her pelvis. She does wash, quickly and half-heartedly, mostly to scrub off any trace of the smell of sick, and to get the oily sweat-slicked feeling out of her hair. Even after she’s finished, though, she sits there for a few minutes more just enjoying the comfort of the warm water on her back.

When she’s feeling much warmer, happier, and more relaxed, she finally turns the water off and climbs out of the shower, wrapping herself up in a towel. Her strength has come back, and her chills have gone for the moment; aside from the ache still persistent below her stomach she actually feels alright.

“Come on, baby,” she murmurs to the dog as she runs the towel over her hair and grabs her pajamas from the floor. “Let’s go back to bed.”

She crawls back under the covers and curls up on her side, Daisy lying patiently at her feet, and this time she finally sleeps soundly.


	4. Chapter 4

It still feels like there’s a knife in her gut when she wakes up the next morning and rolls over to turn off her alarm. She groans miserably, her eyes screwed shut, her jaw clenched against the pain. She _cannot_ be sick with worse than a bad bout of stomach flu right now, because she has a test tomorrow, and if she has something worse - which she _doesn’t -_ there’s a good chance she’ll have to miss a day of class or more.

Friday, she tells herself, throwing her arm over her face. If she isn’t feeling better yet, she’ll go see someone on Friday.

She stumbles out of bed, wrapping one arm around her stomach to brace herself as she moves. _Fuck,_ it hurts. Daisy keens as she gets up and quickly unfolds herself from the foot of the bed to follow Marian into the kitchen.

What time did she take that ibuprofen again - two? Three? Long enough that she can take more, she’s pretty sure, and tries to remember if it’s one of the contraindications for appendicitis - not that she actually _has_ appendicitis, but she has enough symptoms that it’s a possibility. A slim possibility. She can’t remember either way, but the pain in her abdomen is excruciating, and she feels badly overheated. She takes another two tablets.

“Garrett, are you up?” she shouts down the hall, and winces, catching her breath, as the pain spikes.

He makes a wordless grumbly noise back at her, muffled by his pillow.

“I’m leaving for class in fifteen minutes,” she calls. “If you don’t want to walk to campus, you better get your assout of bed!”

There’s a loud series of thuds and bangs, and he appears in the door of his room, hair sticking up wildly and eyes frantic. “I’m up,” he manages, his voice still sleep-slurred. “I’m up.”

“Good, I think your boyfriend’s expecting to see you,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “You gonna put on pants, or anything?”

“Gimme a minute,” he whines, and disappears again.

She laughs a little, shaking her, head, and carefully kneels down on the floor by the front door. “Daisy, sit!” she says, and Daisy immediately sits down in front of her, waiting politely and perfectly still while Marian puts her harness and vest on.

“Let me get something to eat,” Garrett says, running into the kitchen while he’s still pulling his jeans on.

“Better hurry,” she says as she gets up and examines the contents of her bag. She’s not sure she really _needs_ to bring her laptop to any of today’s classes, and she can come back and get it before meeting up with Anders to study for the test. It’ll probably be for the better if she doesn’t strain herself carrying it around all day.

He microwaves a frozen breakfast burrito while she rearranges her bag and pulls on her jacket, and follows close on her heels as she leaves the apartment. “Can I -“ he begins as she turns to lock the door.

“Daisy has shotgun,” she replies flatly, and pushes past him to head downstairs.

“Aw,” he complains, trailing after her. “Daisy _always_ gets shotgun.”

* * *

They arrive on campus and head towards the student union, Garrett still half asleep as he stumbles along behind her. Daisy trots alongside her with her head and tail up, her fur shining warmly in the sunlight. If nothing else, it’s a comfort to have her there, whether Marian really _needs_ her today or not.

Varric and Anders are both sitting at a table outside the cafe, talking over coffee when they get there. “Morning,” Marian says, and pulls a chair over. “How are you two?”

“Look, my two favorite people!” Varric says, grinning. “Busy week, huh? Are we still on for drinks on Friday night?”

“Never miss them,” Garrett says cheerfully, leaning against the table. “How’s life treating you?”

“Well, there’s always something new,” Varric says, and laughs.

“And how’s your morning?” Garrett adds, leaning obnoxiously close to Anders.

“It’s fine,” Anders says. With a pointed look towards Marian, he adds, “How are you both doing?”

Garrett leans even closer, grinning as he rests his arm on Anders’ shoulder. “I always do perk right up when I see you,” he says.

“Oh, my God,” Marian mutters, rolling her eyes. Anders buries his face in his hands. Garrett, if possible, looks even more pleased with himself. On the bright side, though, the joke seems to have distracted Anders from his train of thought, because he doesn’t try to press her for any details on her health.

She wants to get a cup of coffee before she has to leave for class, but even if she isn’t queasy at the moment she knows better than to test her luck. Instead she orders a fruit juice and a bowl of oatmeal, which she eats slowly and carefully in the hopes it will keep from upsetting her stomach again. If Anders notices, this time he doesn’t point it out.

“I’d better get going,” she says when she finishes her oatmeal. “I don’t want to be late. You guys have fun!” She gets to her feet and grabs her bag, throwing it over her shoulder. “Daisy, heel,” she says, and takes her fruit juice with her as she leaves for her morning class.

* * *

It hurts like _hell,_ but she gets through her first class without getting sick again, which is a blessing. She’s still unsure about getting coffee, but it seems less risky than a soda, and she could use the caffeine, so she grabs a small cup in the ten minutes between her classes. Midway through her next lecture, she does start to feel a little ill, but it fades with a few deep steady breaths and the comforting touch of Daisy resting her head on her leg, and she relaxes.

Between her lecture and her first afternoon class, she walks back to the union with Daisy at her heels, debating whether she ought to get something for lunch. She’s been doing alright so far, if a little shaky after she drank the coffee - but getting a little more food in her, if it’s not too heavy, might help that more than hurt it. Maybe a cup of soup with some crackers, or a piece of toast.

Plus, the pain is getting worse again, and she thinks she should eat a little more before taking _more_ painkillers.

“Hey, Hawke!” she hears as she’s crossing the quad, and turns to see Isabela waving at her, sprawled out in the grass with her shirt unbuttoned and her shoes kicked off. “Over here!” she calls.

“Hey, Bela,” she says as she takes a detour over to her.

“Hawke,” Fenris greets her from the shade below the nearest tree, raising one hand lazily.

“Where are you headed?” Isabela says, a smirk playing across her face and her dark eyes sparkling in the sun.

“Get something to eat,” Marian says, and shrugs. “I’ve got a little time before my next class, I’ll come sit out here.”

“Glad to hear it,” Isabela purrs, and takes a sip of her smoothie.

She cuts across the grass to the sandwich shop on the other side of student services and gets herself a cup of tomato bisque and two slices of toasted sourdough to dip in it. With her food, she returns to where Isabela is laying languidly, and sits down in the grass next to her. Daisy happily lays down and rolls over to warm her belly in the sun.

“So are you going to be fun again after tomorrow?” Isabela says, her tongue poking out between her teeth.

“I’m never fun,” she deadpans, opening her soup. “That’s how we met, remember?”

Bela laughs at that and moves a little closer to her. “You’ll meet up with us for drinks Friday, though, right?”

“Of course I will,” Marian says. “Do I ever miss out on getting a few drinks with my best friends?” She dunks a corner of her toast into her soup and nibbles at it slowly, testing to see how well she takes it.

“Not even to study,” Bela teases, and leans against her side, dark curls spilling over her shoulder.

“I’ll be studying this evening,” she says. “We’re getting together after class - you’re both welcome to come too, if you want, as long as you’ll help us.”

“So by _helping,_ ” Bela says, “you mean _not_ trying to distract you, and not…actually _helping_ you study.”

“I mean if I hand you a list of vocabulary, you had _damn_ well better quiz me on it,” Marian replies.

She laughs and sucks on her smoothie loudly. “Alright,” she says, “I suppose I can manage that.”

“I should get to class,” Marian says, and carefully gets to her feet, trying not to put any strain on her tender abdomen. She finishes off the last bite of her toast and heads for the garbage can to throw out the empty paper cup, Daisy trotting close at her heels.

As she turns away, her stomach roils uneasily and her shoulders tense up. “Fuck,” she says, and quickly turns back to the bin before she burps and coughs up a thin stream of soup and bread crumbs.

“Eugh,” Isabela says from behind her as she catches her breath, bracing herself against the edge of the trash can. She feels more discomforted than really sick, but she expects she’s probably going to throw up again, so she doesn’t dare move. Daisy whines, butting against her legs with her head.

“Don’t worry about me,” she says, shrugging off Bela’s hand on her shoulder. “I’m fine - just ate too fast, I think, I’ll be fine.”

She barely has the words out of her mouth before acid rises in her throat again and she leans forward to vomit a wave of red soup-sludge and chunks of toast. Isabela pats her on the back as she retches and coughs, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m gonna be late,” she groans, and spits into the bin, trying to get the taste of sick out of her mouth.

“You’re going to go home,” Bela says. “No one needs you puking your guts up in the lecture hall.”

“I’m okay,” she says, straightening and trying to look collected. “I’m fine, really, I think I’m done. I’ve got to get to class.”

“Far be it from me to judge your personal decisions,” Fenris says dryly, “but that does strike me as unwise.”

“God,” Marian groans, burying her face in her hands. “Shut _up.”_

“Give him your keys,” Isabela says. “I’ll take you home, you can leave the car for your brother.”

“I’ve got two more classes,” she protests weakly as Isabela fishes the keys out of her jacket pocket.

“And I’m sure you’ve never missed them once,” Bela replies coolly, and takes the car key off her keychain to give it to Fenris, who pockets it. “You’ll survive missing the one lecture for them.”

“You’re a pest,” she complains as Isabela pulls her towards the parking lot, but her stomach hurts too much for her to really resist.

“Of course I am,” Isabela agrees cheerfully. “Come on, let’s get you home - just don’t you _dare_ throw up in my car.”


	5. Chapter 5

Isabela has to leave to get to class not long after bringing Marian back to the apartment, and Marian thinks maybe at least she’ll be able to work on something productive while she’s not in class, until not ten minutes after Bela leaves there’s a small, polite knock on the door.

“It’s open,” she calls, and looks up rather dolefully as Merrill lets herself in. Daisy runs over to greet her excitedly, tail wagging, tongue hanging out of her mouth.

“Isabela told me you’re still not feeling well,” she says. “I came to see if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“You can help me study,” Marian suggests, holding up her notebook. “If I’m not going to be in class, I may as well get a head start on that.”

“You should get some rest,” Merrill protests faintly, her brows knitted.

Marian gestures to the couch. “Look, I am resting,” she says. “Lying down and everything. I can rest _and_ study for my test.”

Merrill sighs and smiles fondly at her, sitting down on the chair next to her. “Alright,” she agrees. “What can I do to help?”

“Here,” Marian says, thrusting her notebook at her. “Here’s my paper notes, take a look at them and I’ll try to teach you what I remember.”

“Ooh, that sounds fun!” Merrill chirps, taking the notebook. “None of my biology classes are about humans.”

Marian laughs at that. “Well,” she says, “I suppose it’s a good thing this is our foundations exam, then.”

* * *

She spends the next hour and a half outlining the basics of the nervous system to Merrill, who listens very intently, studying her notes to follow along.

Twenty minutes into it, her stomach starts to feel queasy again, and she groans, covering her face with one arm. “I think,” she says grimly, “I might be sick.”

“Oh, dear,” Merrill says, laying the notebook aside. “Do you need a wastebin, or…?”

“Um,” she replies, and swallows. “Trash can from the bathroom should have a liner in it, but I can get it, I can make it that far.”

“No, no,” Merrill insists firmly, getting to her feet. “Don’t strain yourself, you just lie there and I’ll get it for you.”

She disappears around the corner and returns a moment later with the trash can, moving to set it down beside the couch. Marian, grimacing, shakes her head and grabs it with both hands, sitting up halfway so she can hold it up to her chin. She belches a little and tastes vomit in her throat, though there’s nothing but air at first. A moment passes and she thinks maybe it was another false alarm, before she belches again and up comes more of her soup from earlier in a stream of thick orangey puke that splatters into the plastic bag lining the bin.

“Fuck,” she mutters, and puts the trash can down, rubbing her belly.

“Are you alright?” Merrill asks tenderly, kneeling beside her to stroke her hair.

“Think that’s all for now,” Marian says, shrugging. “Ugh - maybe if I just don’t eat all night, I’ll get through my exam without hurling.”

“You should try to eat a little,” Merrill says, distressed. “You’ve got to keep your strength up.”

“Maybe once I’ve thrown up all the soup,” she mutters. “It doesn’t seem to have agreed with me well.”

“I’m sure if you miss class your professor will understand,” Merrill says.

Marian shakes her head. “It’s just a stomach bug, Merrill,” she says, forcing a smile. “Nothing I need to miss a test for. Now, what was I talking about?”

* * *

She isn’t sick again while studying with Merrill, and has the thought that maybe she could make it to her next class after Merrill leaves, so she’s only missing _one_ lecture today. Unfortunately, as Merrill is pulling on her cardigan getting ready to go to class, there’s a sharp, demanding knock on the door.

“Oh, my god,” Marian mutters, rubbing her eyes with both hands.

Merrill, sweetly oblivious, answers it. “Oh!” she says brightly. “Aveline, good afternoon! I’m glad you’re here, I was just about to leave for class but I shouldn’t like to leave poor Hawke alone while she’s ill.”

“Of course not,” Aveline says, sounding very tired.

“I’ll be back later for your study session, Hawke!” Merrill says, and waves. “I hope you feel better, I love you!”

She ducks out the door and closes it behind her, and Aveline looks up at her murderously.

“You didn’t need to come over and look after me,” Marian says. “I’m sure you have more important things to do. Like, maybe writing a thesis.”

“Fortunately,” Aveline says, “I can work on my _several_ important papers as well at your apartment as at mine. A little bird told me you might need some caretaking.”

“Who the hell do I have to fight?” Marian asks, folding her arms over her chest.

“You won’t be fighting anyone until you’re in good health again,” Aveline replies, sitting down in the chair Merrill vacated and pulling out her laptop. “I hear you’ve been sick the past few days, is that so?”

“It’s just the _flu,_ ” she protests weakly. “It’s not worth kicking up a fuss over.”

“And no one would have to if you stayed at home and rested like a normal person,” Aveline says.

“You’re a fucking grad student,” Marian says. “Like _you’d_ stay home with just a stomach bug.”

“I have limitations just as you do,” Aveline says. “I just happen to _know_ mine.” She settles into the chair, glowering at her computer. “You can study if you want, or you can sleep. I’m going to work on my papers.”

“You still haven’t said who ratted me out,” Marian grumbles, flipping open her notebook.

“No,” Aveline agrees, “because you make it sound like looking out for your health is a serious crime which you intend to see punished.”

“This isn’t looking out for my health,” she complains. “This is keeping me hostage!”

“Quiet down, prisoner,” Aveline replies, deadpan, without looking up from her laptop.

Marian groans and tosses her notebook down on the table. Her head is too fuzzy to focus anyways. Maybe she _should_ sleep, if she can ignore the biting pain just above her pelvis.

* * *

She doesn’t really _sleep_ , but eventually she drifts off into a half-conscious haze, which she slips in and out of for a while. Aveline asks how she’s doing once, and she irritably mumbles, “ _Fine.”_ Some time later, she comes around halfway to the feeling of her stomach twisting up, and rolls over on her side to grab the garbage can and vomit a few times into the bottom of the bag. At one point she thinks she hears the door open and close, but she’s not sure if she imagined it, or the snatches of conversation she thinks she hears.

The next time she’s fully alert is when Aveline is packing up her computer in her bag, getting ready to leave. “Oh,” she says when she sees Marian sit up. “Did I wake you again?”

“Don’t know,” she mutters, rubbing her eyes. “How long was I…?”

“You should go back to sleep,” Aveline says softly. “You need the rest.”

“I don’t,” she protests weakly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re certainly not that,” Aveline says. “Go back to sleep, Hawke.”

“I’ve got study session,” Marian argues, sitting up. “Wait - what time _is_ it?”

“Not for another hour and a half,” calls Varric’s voice from the kitchen.

She tries to turn to look for him, which makes the pain in her abdomen spike, and she cries out, biting down on her lip and hunching her shoulders against the pain. Prickling nausea crawls up her spine.

“Okay, okay,” Varric says, and she hears his footsteps on the floor as he runs over to stand next to her. “Take it easy, Hawke, don’t strain yourself.”

“I have to get to class,” Aveline says, sounding concerned. “Keep an eye on her, alright?”

He waves a hand at her. “What else am I here for? She won’t keep _herself_ alive.”

“Hey,” Marian says, but she can’t bring herself to put much force into protesting.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Aveline tells her, and gives her a small, sympathetic smile. “Hang in there, Hawke.”

As she leaves the apartment, Varric throws himself into the chair she vacated. “Going back to sleep?” he asks lightly, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Not on your life,” she says, annoyed. “I have things I need to get done.”

“Sure,” Varric says. “I’ll be quiet, then. Wouldn’t want to distract you.”

She reaches for her notebook on the coffee table and sits up, resting it on her knees to study it. The words blur slightly in and out of perfect focus, and she blinks, rubbing her eyes. She feels a little hot, actually, and there’s sweat beading on her brow. Her fever might be getting worse.

“Maybe I should try to eat something,” she mumbles, though the thought makes her spine crawl. “Or - drink something. Get some fluids…”

“How about you keep your ass where it is,” Varric says dryly as she moves to get up.

She groans, rolling her eyes. “I’m not _that_ sick,” she complains. “I can get myself a drink.”

“Of _course_ you can,” he agrees, “but if you get any worse and Aveline has even an _idea_ it could be my fault, I’m a dead man! That woman terrifies me.”

“Fine,” she says, trying not to laugh, mostly for fear it will make her sick again. “Then I guess you have to get it for me.”

He gets to his feet and bows melodramatically, grinning. “Whatever you say, Hawke,” he says. “I have my orders.”

“Then get me some crackers and a cup of green tea,” she replies, and gives him a wry smile. “On the double.”

She turns back to her notebook and tries again to read her notes, but by the time Varric comes back over with a mug of tea and a sleeve of saltines, she’s just managed to reread the same few lines several times with no comprehension or recollection of what they say.

With a sigh, she drops the notebook again. “You know,” she says, “maybe studying can wait for the others to get here.”

Varric raises an eyebrow, feigning concern. “Should I call an ambulance?” he says, a twinkle in his eye. “If you don’t want to do your schoolwork, I think it might be an emergency.”

She grabs the nearest pillow and throws it at his head. He laughs.

“What do you say we put on a movie instead?” he suggests. “You could use a distraction.”

“That sounds great, actually,” she says, and smiles wearily. “I like that plan.”


	6. Chapter 6

Varric puts on some shitty cheesy horror flick, and Marian wraps herself up in the quilt to fend off a chill while she watches, curling up around her mug. The distraction does help take her mind off the pain, for the most part, though it hurts to laugh, and he has to pause the movie a couple times when nausea washes over her and she throws up in the trash bin.

“Thanks for being here,” Marian says, huddling into the quilt and drawing her knees up to her chest as the movie is ending and the credits start. “You’re a lot more fun than Aveline.”

He scoffs at that. “Of course I am!” he says, looking affronted. “If I ever become as stiff and boring as she is, you’ll have to kill me.”

“Good thing we all love her anyways,” Marian says, with a weak smile, and checks the time on her phone. “Shit, I’ve got to get ready,” she says, getting to her feet and throwing the blanket over the couch. “I’ll be late -“

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Varric says. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“We were planning to study for the test tomorrow!” she argues, glowering at him.

“Now, did I say you can’t do that?” he replies. “Don’t worry, Hawke, everyone knows you’re not coming to the library and they’ll meet you here instead.”

“What do you mean, _everybody,_ ” she says, narrowing her eyes.

“Well, when Isabela told me you weren’t feeling well,” he starts.

“I’ll _kill_ her,” Marian says darkly, and throws herself down on the couch.

“I had to let the others know so they could change plans!” he says.

“And I’ll kill you, too,” she snaps, and then sits up sharply. “Wait, _you_ told Aveline?”

He shrugs. “I was busy! I couldn’t make it over myself.”

“You son of a _bitch,_ ” she groans, and slumps forward as her stomach turns over. “Fuck - hold on - ”

She grabs the garbage can before she retches, coughing up a weak mouthful of acid and tea. When she takes a breath all she gets is the smell of vomit, and she heaves again, screwing her eyes shut against the burning in her throat and nose.

“Dammit,” she mutters, putting the bin back on the floor and lying down on the couch again, her arms wrapped around her stomach trying in vain to ease the pain.

“Good thing you’re not _that_ sick,” Varric says dryly.

“Shut up,” she groans.

Out in the hallway, she hears voices, and lifts her head as the door opens and Garrett bursts inside with Anders on his heels. “Hey, Marian,” he calls, kicking off his shoes by the door. “Feeling any better?”

“Some,” she says, and shrugs. “Hey, Anders.”

“You stayed home from classes?” Anders says, raising an eyebrow to look at her very coolly. “I thought you weren’t sick.”

Varric laughs, slapping his knee. Marian glowers at both of them. “Isabela made me,” she says. “I could’ve made it.”

“That’s not the impression I got from _her,_ ” Anders says. “Or was she exaggerating the amount you threw up after lunch?”

“She always exaggerates,” Marian says. “I’m _fine.”_

“That’s what you told me _yesterday -_ “

“And I _was -_ “

“ - but _Merrill_ told me you were sick after lunch - ”

“I made it to all my classes _then!_ ”

“Oh, take it easy, you two,” Varric says, and they both fall silent. “Hawke, we all know you’re just too stubborn to let anything as simple as a stomach bug keep you down, but you’ve got a test tomorrow. You should get the rest.”

She huffs and lays down again, pulling a pillow over her face. “I hate it when you’re _right,_ ” she mutters to the room at large.

“We know,” Garrett says cheerfully. “Anders, do you want anything to eat?”

Marian puts the pillow aside and reaches for her notebook. “Well, since you’re already in my apartment, _uninvited…_ ”

“Oh, like you’d have stayed if I hadn’t come here instead,” Anders says.

“I’d have just gone to study session at the library,” she says. “Where it’s _supposed_ to be.”

“Which,” Anders says, dropping his things on the floor and sitting down by the coffee table, “is why I’m here.”

“ _God,_ ” Marian groans. “ _Since_ you’re already here, you might as well make yourself _comfortable_ so we can start studying.”

“Of course,” Anders agrees, with a wry smile.

“You’re going to quiz me first,” she says, and tosses the notebook to him, grabbing her tea with her other hand to take a few small sips.

“This is the middle of a chapter,” he says, studying it.

“I know,” she replies, annoyed. “I’ve already been over the nervous system, skip to endocrine. We’ll go back over it later.”

 

* * *

 

 

Merrill shows up not long after they start studying, and cheerfully finds a spot on the floor to sit where she can work on her readings for class while they study. Marian wouldn’t admit it in a lifetime, but she’s a little glad she’s able to study with them at home, instead of on campus. If nothing else, it’s a lot easier to manage that every half an hour or so she has to pause to dry heave and cough up a little of her stomach contents, since she just has get the wastebin rather than bolting for the bathroom.

Not long after Merrill arrives, someone knocks firmly at the door. Marian looks up, frowning. She thinks at first it must be Aveline, back to babysit now that her classes are over with. “Come in,” she calls, a little hoarsely.

The door opens, and it’s not Aveline who peers around the edge of it. It’s Cassandra.

“Oh,” Marian says, and feels her cheeks heat up.

“Hawke,” Cassandra says, and steps into the hall, casting a look around at everyone else.

“What are you doing here?” Marian asks.

“I heard you weren’t feeling well.” She doesn’t move from the place she’s standing by the edge of the room.

Marian turns to shoot Varric a venomous look. He spreads his hands and mouths _what?_ at her with a theatrical look of innocence.

“I’m fine,” she says, and manages a smile at Cassandra. “It’s just a bug, nothing to worry about.”

“Of course,” Cassandra says, still not moving. “I thought perhaps you could use some company, but…”

“No, come in and sit down!” Marian says quickly, and looks for somewhere she _can_ sit. “Um - here, I’ll move over, just don’t sit too close - I don’t want you to get sick too…”

She grabs her quilt and pillow and moves to one end of the couch, quickly moving the garbage can so it’s tucked out of the way by the arm of it.

Cassandra frowns, glancing again at the rest of the group sitting on the floor around the coffee table before she crosses the room and sits stiffly at the edge of the couch. “Thank you,” she says.

“No, thank _you,”_ Marian says. “For coming by, I mean - I don’t need coddling, or anything, but it’s a nice gesture.”

“Who’s here?” Garrett calls as he emerges from his room. He cranes his neck around the corner and spots Cassandra, and raises an eyebrow, starting to grin.

Marian fixes him with an icy stare and shakes her head slowly at him.

“Oh, officer,” he says in his best innocent voice. “I didn’t know you were part of my dear sister’s study group. Unless, of course, you came here to arrest someone.”

“I’m not…” Cassandra says, frowning at him, and shakes her head. “I came to see how Hawke was doing. I did not mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting,” Marian says quickly. “You’re welcome to stay - we’re just reviewing for a test tomorrow and working on homework.”

“Are you doing alright, Marian?” Garrett asks. “You’re, ah, looking - a little flushed…”

“Either find some homework to work on or go back to your room so we can focus,” she says, glowering. Bad enough that Cass sees her like this without his commentary making it worse.

“He’s right,” Varric says. “You do seem a little feverish, maybe you should check your temperature - “

“ _Varric,”_ she protests, grasping for a witty retort but finding her head too cloudy to come up with one. “Can we _please_ get back to studying?”

 

* * *

 

 

Varric orders Chinese for everyone a little after six, and they take a break from studying to eat when it arrives. Marian isn’t expecting it, and perks up a little when it gets there; it’s been a while since she was sick, and she’s feeling hungry more than anything.

Varric, much to her chagrin, hands her a box of plain white sticky rice.

“Thanks,” she says very flatly, giving him a cold look, but she doesn’t want to make a scene about it. If she makes a scene, Anders and Aveline will both start fussing and scolding her, and Varric will find it amusing, and worst of all Cassandra will witness the whole thing since she’s still there, sitting next to Marian on the couch. Instead she swipes a couple packets of soy sauce from the table when no one is looking and stirs them into her rice.

Cassandra must notice how she’s eyeing her kung pao chicken, because she slides it over with a small smile so she can have some, and she feels better about it after that. Maybe it’s worse for her, but it’s much more satisfying to have something with a little flavor, a nice hint of spice and a nutty undertone even when she eats around the cashews.

Once they’ve mostly finished, Marian grabs her notebook and pen again. “Alright,” she says. “Let’s get back to it.”

They take turns reviewing different parts of the neurological section and explaining them to each other. When it’s her turn, she hands her notes to Cassandra and says, “I’m going to teach you about action potentials.”

“I - ” Cassandra stammers, and looks down at the notebook. “Alright.”

Marian closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to remember everything. “Action potentials are the basis of communication between cells,” she says. “They’re the electrical impulses that transfer movement and information from one cell to the next, and run physiological reactions on a cellular level. They’re, um - created in the plasma membrane of a cell by sodium or…calcium gradients.”

She chews on her lip, trying to think of what to explain next. The pain in her abdomen receded for a while, but it’s coming back, and her stomach hasn’t really settled quite right since eating, though she’s felt better than before.

“They, uh - they initiate different activities depending on cell type and purpose,” she says. “Muscle cells are stimulated to contract, many internal organs are stimulated to secrete chemicals. In neurons, action potentials are sometimes referred to as ‘firing,’ and transmit messages to and from all areas of the body, to - control physiological…functions.”

She pauses to swallow, grimacing. Against her will she has the thought that it’s the process which, among other things, controls vomiting.

“Um,” she says. “Neurons pass information to other types of cells, which causes reflexes like - flinching - when sensory input is received that’s painful or unexpected,  the muscles are, uh…”

Her mouth fills with saliva and she gulps, closing her eyes. She doesn’t want to throw up in front of Cassandra. She _won’t_ throw up in front of Cassandra.

“The muscles are forced to contract,” she manages, and presses her hand to her lips as she belches a little. _Fuck,_ she thinks, and swallows harder. “Um,” she manages, her voice very tight. “Hold on - “

She ducks her head and grabs the bin. The smell of sick hits her as she moves it and her throat closes up. Her muscles seize and she doubles over as a thin stream of liquid surges up her throat and spills into the bag.

“Fuck,” she manages, and coughs weakly, spitting out mucous. Her throat and nose are _burning._ She sits up a little, gasping to catch her breath.

“Hawke!” Cassandra says, leaning over to put a hand on her shoulder.

“Sorry,” she says, “Fuck - sorry - “

She heaves and pukes more violently, bringing up chunks of chicken and rice in a wave of thick vomit that splatters the sides of the bag. Cass steadies her with one hand on her back as she doubles over with her head between her knees to hide her face while she throws up cheap Chinese into her bathroom garbage can.

“God, I’m sorry,” she says when she can lift her head. Her eyes are watering enough to spill over her cheeks, and she hurriedly wipes the tears away. “I, um - fuck -“

“Are you going to be alright?” Cassandra asks, eyes wide with concern.

She waves a hand and puts on a brave face. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s - _ugh -_ it’s just a stomach bug, I’ll be fine by tomorrow. Which is why -“ She pauses to spit a mouthful of gunk into the bin, grimacing. “We have to keep studying, I can’t be unprepared for this test.” She makes a face at the garbage can and sighs. “First I’m going to change that out, though - hold on.”

“No, don’t you get up,” Anders says. “I’ll do it.”

“No,” she protests weakly as he takes the garbage can to replace the bag with a new, clean one. “I _hurled_ in there.”

“I’m a nursing student,” he calls over his shoulder. “And if you’re going to keep studying even in this state, you’re _damn_ well going to let me look after you while you do.”


	7. Chapter 7

She wakes up feverish and hazy the morning before the test, and it takes a while for her to clear her head enough to even remember that. Groggy, she stumbles out of bed and shuffles to the kitchen to make herself something light for breakfast before she leaves. Daisy pads after her and lays down across the entry to the kitchen calmly while she cracks two eggs into a pan to scramble them up.

“Are you making breakfast?” Garrett asks as he appears a few minutes later at the end of the hall.

“Yeah,” she says, “for _me.”_

“Are you feeling any better, then?” he asks, and steps over Daisy to lean against the counters. “You weren’t looking so hot last night. Though, actually, you’re looking like you might be kind of hot now.”

“I’m fine,” she says, stirring the eggs with a plastic fork.

“Glad to hear it,” he replies, and starts digging in the fridge for food. “Don’t want anything to make you that sick.”

“Everything I’ve eaten for two days has made me sick,” she says, adding pepper to the pan, “but I’ve got to get _some_ protein in my system if I can. Throw in a slice of toast or two for me, will you?”

“No,” he says, “but I’ll put some in for _me.”_

“Shut up!” she says, glowering. “I’m _sick,_ asshole.”

He grins, his tongue poking between his teeth as he drops toast for both of them into the toaster.

She scoops her eggs onto a plate and debates whether she really wants to eat bland, barely seasoned eggs and plain toast when it will probably make her sick anyways, and she _could_ at least enjoy eating it. With a sigh, she decides against adding salsa anyways, if only because it’ll _hurt_ to throw it up later.

Garrett brings her toast over when it’s done and she piles her eggs on top to eat them together. She feels heavy and slow and her cheeks are _burning,_ but she doesn’t bother checking her temperature as she gets ready ten minutes later than usual to leave the apartment. She’ll call the doctor after her classes today if her fever doesn’t go down, but she’s got a test to finish first.

“Your ride to campus leaves in ten minutes,” she tells Garrett when she’s finished getting dressed, and sits down on the living room floor to put on Daisy’s harness.

“Fuck,” he says, his mouth full of cereal. “Hold on, okay, I’ll just be a minute.”

He runs to his room to get dressed and gather his things while she takes a couple ibuprofen and pulls on her shoes. She’s waiting impatiently by the door when he emerges, still wrestling with his jacket.

“I’m ready,” he says quickly, and ducks past her out the door so she can lock it behind them.

She unlocks the car and climbs in, though moving around so much is a little disorienting and doesn’t make the pain any better. She doesn’t feel nauseous yet, but her food feels very heavy in her stomach.

“Are you sure you should go to class today?” Garrett asks as he climbs into the back seat. “You look pretty bad.”

“I’ve got a _test,_ ” she says, annoyed. “I can’t just _miss_ it.”

“Okay,” he agrees, shrugging. “I was just wondering.”

“Well, don’t,” she says, and sticks her tongue out at him before she starts the car and heads to campus.

 

* * *

 

 

She shuffles into the lecture hall and throws her things down next to her seat, dropping into it wearily. Once this is over with, she thinks, she’ll feel better.

Anders sidles up to her and leans against the desk, watching her. “You don’t -“ he begins.

“Look good, I _know,”_ she says, putting her head down on the desk. “I’ll be _fine._ Fuck, if it’ll make you stop fussing, I’ll go home after the exam, okay? I just have to do this.”

“Okay,” he says, a little skeptically. “Good luck.”

“Good morning, class,” says the professor as she enters, and closes the door behind her. “Let’s all take our seats so I can pass out the test.”

“You, too,” Marian whispers to Anders before he rushes off to his seat, and pulls out her pen. She’s still overheated and in pain, but she grits her teeth and takes a couple deep breaths, focusing herself. She just has to get through the test. That’s all, and then she can rest a little.

 

* * *

 

With how hard it is to stay focused, she finishes a good twenty minutes later than Anders, and she’s a little surprised when she leaves the room and finds him leaning against the wall waiting for her.

“Hey,” he says, looking up and sliding his phone into his jacket pocket. “How did it go?”

“Mm,” she says, and shrugs halfheartedly. “I… think I did _okay._ How about you?”

He grimaces. “It could have been worse. Maybe alright?”

“I’m just glad it’s over with,” she says, her shoulders slumping. “I’ll feel better by - by Monday, after I - _oh…”_

The knife in her gut twists sharply, cutting through whatever relief she’d gotten, and she grabs Anders by the arm to steady herself as pain shoots up and down her spine.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, and clutches at her stomach. The painkillers that morning got her through the test, but they must be wearing off by now, and the pain is only getting worse.She sees red spots behind her eyes, the world in front of her blurring at the edges. Her fingers tighten, closing on Anders’ sleeve, as her muscles tense.

“Hawke?” he says. He sounds like he’s underwater, or at the bottom of the well - muffled and echoing and far away.

“I - “ she manages before her stomach clenches. She heaves, her eyes burning, and spews her breakfast violently all over the floor, all over her shoes, all over her other hand as she tries too late to stop the stream.

“Hawke!” Anders calls again, but she can’t answer. Her knees go out from under her, pain wracking her abdomen, and she feels herself falling before her vision fades out and everything goes black.

 

* * *

 

Later, she has a very hazy and scattered recollection of what happens next. Mostly, she just knows it hurts like hell.

The next thing she’s really _aware_ of is sirens somewhere in the distance, and then a lot of people around her, talking over her in loud voices she can’t understand. She’s not sure why she’s lying on the floor. Or where she is. Or how she got there. It’s all pretty blurry.

She does remember crying - trying not to, not in front of people and especially not in front of all these strangers, but crying nonetheless. At some point she throws up again down the front of her shirt, and she’s aware that someone holds her head up.

She isn’t sure what’s happening when people try to move her and lift her off the ground, though the pain is worse while people whose faces she can’t see carry her somewhere. The world moves dizzyingly and bewilderingly around her. There’s a lot of bright lights which she’s vaguely aware must belong to an ambulance. She tries to protest the she doesn’t _want_ to go to the hospital, but she isn’t sure she actually manages coherent speech.

Nothing much about the ambulance ride stays with her later, though she’s conscious for most of it; looking back there’s no more than a dreamy haze. She observes the EMTs poking and prodding her, pressing on her stomach, and thinks how funny it is that it doesn’t really hurt anymore. Later, of course, she realizes they stuck her with painkillers when she got into the ambulance, which is probably why she feels like she’s floating, or maybe like she’s falling. It makes her head spin and her vision blur, and her stomach feels bubbly and warm. She thinks at some point maybe she’s sick again, but she can’t be sure.

At least, she thinks later, she remembers the emergency room least of all. After all, they put her to sleep almost as soon as she gets there, and after that, she remembers nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

She wakes up slowly and groggily, the white haze in front of her resolving gradually into comprehensible shapes. She’s in a hospital room, lying in bed in a white gown, and just around the corner she can hear voices.

She sits up.

There’s a dull throbbing ache in her stomach, and her head feels like it’s full of clouds. Grimacing, she pulls up her gown and sees a long row of stitches at an angle above her hip.

“Hm,” she says to herself, blinking, and runs one finger over the incision, wincing when it stings.

“…think she…awake?” a voice outside asks. Merrill? She thinks it might be Merrill.

“…should go check…” That’s Anders, she thinks, and frowns. “Make sure…I…”

A second later, he peers around the corner, and when their eyes meet breathes a visible sigh of relief.

“Good,” he says, “you were out forever.”

“What the _hell_ happened?” she asks, shaking her head at him slowly.

“She’s awake!” Merrill says, and appears around the corner as well. “Oh, thank goodness! Hawke, how are you feeling? Are you in any pain?”

“Um,” she says, disoriented by Merrill’s fussing. “Not much - I think I’ll be alright…”

“What do you remember?” Anders says, folding his arms and giving her a stern look down his nose.

“I think…” she begins, wracking her brain for any recollection of the day leading up to this point. “I… fainted? Oh, god, that’s _embarrassing.”_

“You were already in surgery when Anders texted the rest of us!” Merrill says, wringing her hands. “They said it was very serious!”

“Surgery?” she echoes vaguely.

“Emergency appendectomy,” Anders says coolly, “though I’m not sure about the accuracy of the term when your appendix was already _ruptured._ ”

She lays back down slowly and pulls the sheet up over herself, too tired to offer any better defense. The anaesthesia is definitely still in her system.

“The nurse should be in soon to admit you,” he adds dryly.

“Admit me?” she asks, frowning. “They already did the surgery, I can’t need _that_ much recovery care!”

Anders glowers. “They want to keep you overnight to make sure the antibiotics work,” he says, very slowly, “since your appendix _ruptured_ and leaked _septic matter_ into _the rest of your abdomen._ ”

“Ugh,” Marian says, her brows drawing together in what she hopes is a scowl.

“You have to rest, Hawke,” Merrill cuts in. “You were _awfully_ sick.”

“I’ve got _class_ tomorrow,” she protests. “And did anyone get my homework from my other classes?”

“Lord,” Anders says, rolling his eyes.

“I think Varric is planning on making sure people get it,” Merrill says.

She sighs, folding her arms. “He’d _better,”_ she grumbles, and shuts her eyes. Her head feels heavy, and her limbs, to be honest, and she wants to keep herself awake but fighting sleep seems like such a great deal of effort.

She’ll just rest for a moment, she tells herself. Just until the nurse comes in, so she can explain that she’ll be fine outside the hospital.

 

She’s vaguely aware of being asked some questions, which she answers with a great deal of difficulty, but when she actually _wakes up_ , she’s in a different room, and Daisy is lying at her feet, asleep.

She stretches and sits up, looking blearily around the room.

“Hey,” Garrett says, looking up from his phone and grinning. “Look who’s up?”

“What fucking _time_ is it,” she mumbles. “Who brought Daisy over?”

“Me,” he says. “Merrill wanted to see you as soon as she could, so I took the dog and got her in.”

There’s a window to her left, with blinds covering it, but between the slats she catches a glimpse of a dark sky.

“Fuck,” she says, annoyed. “I slept all _day?”_

“Well, you did have a couple of your organs rearranged,” he points out lightly. “Which, by the way, took about three hours.”

She laughs at that and winces as stabbing pain flares up in her abdomen. _“Ow,_ ” she says, grabbing at her stomach, and notices the IV in her arm. “Shouldn’t this have a painkiller?”

“Don’t think so,” Garrett says. “Think it’s just nutrients, or something. You haven’t exactly been well-nourished the past few days.”

“How long am I supposed to stay?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Couple days, I think,” he says. “Until the infection clears up. Or, maybe just infection risk, I’m not sure.”

“I have _classes,_ ” she protests. “I have to get back to school tomorrow, I can’t be out for _days._ ”

Garrett raises an eyebrow, giving her a pointed look. “Well, as a future student of medicine,” he says, “you might have, ah, considered the risks…”

“Shut _up_ ,” she groans, and slumps back against her pillow. “You _have_ to get my homework for me.”

“Well, I think bed rest is supposed to be _rest,”_ he points out.

“As a future student of medicine,” she says through her teeth, “I can’t afford to fall behind in my classes, even while I’m stuck in a hospital bed.”

He laughs at that. “I’ll make sure you get it,” he reassures her. “Just promise me you’ll try to take it easy.”

 

On the bright side, there is something nice about knowing she has a group of friends loyal enough that she not only gets her homework for her classes, but has people around who will do it with her almost the entire time. Isabela and Varric come over the next morning when visiting hours open, Isabela with an extra pillow and a couple of sodas, Varric carrying a jumbled fistful of papers and three of her textbooks.

“You’re my heroes,” Marian proclaims, sitting up. “Let me see that.”

“Nope,” Varric says, setting everything down on the table. “No heavy lifting for you.”

“It’s just _books,”_ she complains as he rolls the table over and positions it above her lap as a desk.

“You’ll pop your stitches if you lift all that,” Isabela says. “And it’ll hurt like hell, too. Besides, I don’t imagine you want to extend your hospital stay.”

Marian sighs, rolling her eyes. “Okay,” she says. “What’s all of this?”

“Copies of notes from all your classes yesterday,” Varric says, “all the textbooks you were assigned reading from for Monday, and all the class handouts. Figured you’d want to take notes on the material as well as doing the homework.”

“I could kiss you,” she says. “Do you have my pens?”

“And all four notebooks,” he assures her, patting the shoulder strap of his backpack. “Just tell me where you want to start.”

She occupies herself poring over all the notes, which she painstakingly rewrites and annotates in six colors of pen while Food Network plays quietly on the TV. Isabela heads out for class a little before noon, and Anders comes in a few minutes later, his bag slung over his shoulder.

The nurse comes in early in the afternoon to give her her antibiotics and painkiller again, and asks kindly if she wants to try eating something. “Please,” Marian says. “I’m wasting away.”

“Do you want water, or juice with your lunch?” the nurse asks, making a note on her chart.

“Um,” Marian says, grimacing. “Can I have my ginger ale?”

“If you think you’re ready for it, I think that’s okay,” the nurse says. “I’ll get you some food.”


	9. Chapter 9

She comes to the conclusion that having to _stay_ in the hospital while nurses fuss over her and doctors check in on her and her injuries twice a day is actually _worse_ than being dragged to the emergency room for urgent medical attention has ever been.

For one thing, being in the hospital is _boring._ With nothing else to do, she catches up on the notes and homework for all her classes by early Saturday afternoon, even between a few brief naps induced by the painkillers they shoot into her arm every four hours or so. After that, she ends up mindlessly watching TV for more than an _hour_ before Garrett drops by with her laptop and tablet. If nothing else, it’s a lot more engaging to marathon a show with a _plot_.

Besides that, though, she hates being fussed over enough when it’s her friends doing it, let alone when it’s total strangers. Her nurses are certainly all _nice_ enough, but it’s still tremendously annoying to be bothered every hour by someone coming to change the dressing over the incision, which she’s perfectly capable of herself, and to need to call someone before going to the _bathroom_ because they still have her hooked up to three different monitors that will sound alarms if she tries to take the leads off.

On top of all that, she gets stiff and sore very quickly from staying in bed, which makes her crankier than ever about the whole ordeal. Even when Carver and Bethany stop by together that afternoon, she’s snappish and irritable and generally poor company.

Later that evening, she finally gets the nurse to let her take a walk and stretch out, and drags her IV on a pole with her to the cafeteria to have something more than flavorless broth and apple juice to eat. She can’t have much, and she’s not planning on risking making her stay here any longer than it already will be, but there’s some rice, and a toaster for bread, and packets of green tea at the coffee bar.

It’s a surprise when someone approaches the table she’s sitting at and she looks up to see Cassandra. “I, ah,” Cass says, shifting her weight uncertainly. “I came to visit, and your nurse said you were here.”

“Wow,” Marian says. “Uh.” Her face is a little warm, and she’s acutely aware that’s she’s dressed in nothing but sweatpants and a hospital robe. She doesn’t mind so much that Merrill and Isabela see her like this, but Cassandra is a very different story.

“May I sit down?” Cass asks, gesturing at the chair across from her.

“Yeah!” she says quickly. “Yeah, um - sorry I look like a wreck, or…”

Cassandra arches an eyebrow as she sits down. “You just had a surgery,” she says. “You look better than could be expected, I think.”

Marian laughs, runs her fingers through her hair. God, she hasn’t even _showered_ in the past three days since she’s been here. She’s not sure she’s even _allowed_ to shower with her wound still draining out as heavily as it is, which is a disgusting matter in and of itself.

“Wow,” she says, “you really haven’t seen me at my best this week, huh.”

“You’re ill,” Cassandra says. “I can hardly judge you!”

“I usually try to look presentable when I see you,” Marian replies sheepishly. “You didn’t have to come visit, you know.”

“I wanted to see you,” Cass says, her brows drawing together. “I would have come sooner if I’d been able.”

Marian feels herself flushing and ducks her head, busying herself with her rice, trying to hide her face. “Oh,” she says, embarrassed. “Thanks, Cass.”

“How are you managing?” Cassandra asks, reaching across the table to rest one hand over hers. “Is there anything you need that I could get you?”

She shakes her head, blushing even harder. God, she’s acting like she’s _seventeen._ But then, she is still a little feverish.

“Thanks for coming,” she mumbles after a moment. “It means a lot.”

“Of course!” Cassandra says, sounding a little affronted that she’d expected otherwise. “I…do not want you to be alone.”

* * *

It’s not until Tuesday that the doctor checks on her in the morning and _finally_ clears her to go home. Her friends, of course, do everything they can to make it less miserable, but a nurse still has to stop her from jumping up out of bed and leaving on the spot when she hears she’s allowed to be discharged.

“Glad you’re coming home,” Garrett says, beaming, when he arrives at her room to help her pack up before he drives her home. “Missed you. And Daisy, of course.”

“You, too,” she says, grinning. “Just don’t hug me too hard when we get out of here, okay? The doctor said I have to come back if I tear any stitches, to make sure it won’t get infected.”

“I’ll be gentle with you,” he says, sticking out his tongue, and she punches him as hard as she can in the shoulder.

The nurse comes in with a stack of discharge papers for her, which she leafs through absentmindedly as they leave the room, Daisy trotting cheerfully at her side. Garrett carries her backpack and textbooks out to the car for her and dumps them in the back seat.

“I’m driving,” she says. “I’m not on the heavy painkillers anymore, I want my car back.”

“Okay, okay,” he agrees, tossing her the keys and sliding into the seat behind her so Daisy can hop up on the passenger side.

“And I’m going to class this afternoon,” she adds as she starts up the car. “I might have missed physiology already, but like hell I’m just staying home all day.”

Garrett laughs at that, shaking his head. “Far be it from me to stop you,” he says. “Hey, let me see that paperwork.”

“Don’t even think I’ll let _you_ play doctor for me,” she says, glaring over her shoulder as she hands him the papers. “It’s bad enough that your boyfriend does.”

“Oh, I’ll leave that to the nursing student,” he says. “Except to make sure you don’t rip your stitches out.”

“Shut _up,”_ she says, rolling her eyes, and pulls out of the hospital parking lot to head home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I think this is the only multi-chapter fic I've actually finished. Thanks for sticking with me, y'all!! <3


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